Coming out of Hiding

There were several jobs in last weeks' Oxford Times that I could possibly do... however, I applied for one having analysed carefully how each would impact on my life. Where were my certificates? Who would I ask to be Referees now that I live in a completely new area and have not worked for two and a half years? A few emails later I have found a few willing people. At the bottom of my old Naval WRNS trunk in the garage I found old folders from my last contracts and within were my certificates, neatly placed within transparent pockets, perfectly preserved as if awaiting a new lease of life.

Before he died, he insisted I keep all my folders just in case anything happened and I needed to go back to work... he was right, as always. My dilema is: a) Do I throw myself into full-time, all-consuming, exhausting teaching of the 16+ range of students? Or, b) Do I take a part-time teaching post - anywhere? Or, c) Have a part-time non-teaching post that is low-stress, but low income too? I know I need to do something! I need to get out into the world and make friends and contribute somehow, if only to keep my sanity. Ideally, I've always wanted my own business... something creative and arty...

My investments, such as they are have plummeted due to the financial crisis in America, so I cannot depend on them any more to supplement my income. Time for a radical change. It's scary after being incarcerated for so long in my safe house with my cat for company, not having to engage too much with the outside world while grieving, and getting used to being alone without him.

Even more scary is the thought of being asked to attend an interview!

Food Festival Frenzy

The sun shone down on my daughter and I at the Emsworth Food Festival at the weekend as we battled our way through the heaving crowds; the smell of all kinds of cooking invading our amateur nostrils. The small sailing community on the south coast on the borders of Hampshire and West Sussex attracted people from miles around, along with their children in and out of pushchairs; dogs of all shapes and sizes; which were clearly disorientated and confused among the tightly packed legs. No where to park; the three main car parks were being used for the many stalls and shows. We all jostled, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, coming to an agonising halt upon two acquaintances meeting and wanting to chat. Pubs overflowed and shops sold their wares at greatly reduced prices while people like us (in the know), escaped to the foreshore and fresh air and freedom.

Later, in the sanctuary of my daughter's house, we watched the crowds dispel and make their weary way as we drank a cup of tea, aching from head to foot from dodging, weaving, stopping, starting, bumping and evading. The result? One spoon dish, a bar of organic dark chocolate and a bottle of ginger wine. (Oh, and sunburn and bruises). Would we do it again? Definitely!

Charity Shops, Memories and Articles of clothing

"We can't take much you know", was the curt response from the volunteer within the Charity Shop this morning as I handed over a small bag and a man's sun hat. Just a minute I thought, don't you realise you insensitive woman that these last few remaining belongings of my lovely deceased man have, in just two seconds been reduced to only 'things', and things that seemed no more than a nuisance to the elderly woman with a severe countenance who stood before me.

I walked quickly out of the shop and heading back to my car thought; she is of course right. They were only things; articles, the last remaining earthly attachments to him. Three days of clearing and sorting cupboards, drawers and boxes has made me feel somehow liberated, and while it hasn't been easy, the tears have been few this time. I re-read some of his cards to me over the last ten years - smiles at his tender thoughtfulness. Most of his things were given to charity last year, but somehow I couldn't give away a few pieces; a tie I'd bought him, a favourity sweatshirt, his big familiar outdoor coat that still had his smell within, which brought the few tears, and of course the straw sunhat that we'd bought for our next holiday, and which we never reached.

For a couple of days he was back here with me and the decision to part with these few things gave me pain, sorrow, tears and smiles. I had a choice; give them away or keep them and keep a shrine made up of articles. I have my memories and my photos - I have no need of articles that someone else may need.

Charity shop assistants - compassion and empathy would not go amiss, no matter your age or experience of death!

A selection of Cotswolds photos

Just a few of the many Cotswolds photos taken over the last three days, around Burford and Swinford. More to follow...

One of my Cotswold photographs

After driving around the Cotswolds for the past three days, I finally settled on the above photo to represent my idea of living in the Cotswolds. Yes, I know it looks very chocolate boxy, but for me it sums up the hundreds of little cottages tucked away down little lanes among the rolling hills west of Burford.

I have over a hundred more photos, and if I can remember how, I shall post a few more. What struck me most was the abundance of cars, vans and tourists blocking every view. I have heard of a program that will remove all unwanted obstacles from pictures - sounds like a good idea, but, people and cars show a true representation of the area these days.

Thank you Richard for your advice re taking Landscape pictures. I didn't realise until now, just how tiring it is to be out and about all day looking for the perfect shot. In the end, I became snap-happy and then spent hours on the computer sorting them out. I have been approached by middle-aged men wanting to know what I'm doing - Hmm, with a camera in my hand I felt like saying, 'I'm flying a kite'! People get quite tetchy and I need to know if I'm breaking any law or code of conduct when taking photos of a road with cottages lined neatly along it.

Even if I don't win the local competition, I now have enough photos to make several calendars, mouse-mats, and greetings cards. It's an idea!

Post Script

At no stage have I mentioned the unstinting help and emotional support given me by daughter number two throughout the cup cake marathon. She adopted a Joyce Grenfell approach to keeping the two boys reasonably behaved while we slogged in the kitchen, stopping briefly to have words with the youngest boy, who has gained an honorary degree in behavioural problems, shouting at us both that we are not his mother, to which he received a blast of short-tempered adult reprisal which frightened him silly. She is a star and my saviour of sanity. Thank you darling girl.

Waterlogged and trapped in Wantage

Friday, 20th July. Having received no reply from daughter number 3 regarding my possibly picking up her two little boys from school for end of term break, I jumped in the car and raced down to Wantage to be at the school gates by midday. Rain emptied from the dark grey skies in skip-loads forming large puddles and lakes on the way. An ambulance sped by, sirens going and I lost coverage of my mobile phone. Daughter number 3 was at home, happily cleaning and singing away - her phone switched off - she'd taken the day off work and had forgotten that I was on standby to fetch the boys; never mind; the kettle went on, the biscuits came out and we chatted until time to walk around to the school gates, not noticing the torrential rain outside.

It was at this point that we noticed the little stream outside was brimming over and that we couldn't cross the road to the school without being up to our ankles in water. The lollipop lady was threatening to resign and mums in T-shirts and flip-flops were not amused either. We all ran back home, stipped off and changed - surprisingly I managed to fit into my daughter's size 8 trousers (I'm normally a size 12) therefore, I must have shrunk in the rain!

We lunched, watched 'Loose Women' chatted and talked to the boys, had more tea, and then I looked out of the window. The front lawn was now a lake with the bird table much shorter with a young squirrel perched on top wondering what to do with his nuts. We looked out onto the back lawn, which was an even bigger lake. We opened the side door to see a river running past. I said something along the lines of "ooh er", while my daughter preferred Anglo Saxon.

I decided it was time I went home and my daughter had to deliver the two boys to their father at Winchester for the weekend. We set off in different directions but immediately came to a halt as there were broken down cars and huge ponds of water in both directions. We couldn't get back to the house either because of broken down cars, ambulances and police trying to get by to set up road blocks. Mobile phone: we met at a place we both new on higher ground and planned another route - over the hills at the back of Wantage - sounded a good idea at the time. For the next 2 hours we tried and failed, and tried again to get out of the Wantage area. By now, there were many abandoned cars who'd tried to drive through what they thought were shallow puddles, only to end up abandoning cars. Driving on through water, hoping the cars would make it we eventually found a route back to my daughter's house and that's where I stayed.

Meanwhile, a phone call from my daughter's partner described the hell on the M4 and that he didn't think he would get home that night. He eventually arrived and we watched the news and the utter destruction and chaos around us.

The next day I arrived home via a long route along the now re-opened A34 and M40 to find my street had suffered badly, as did my neighbour's car. I was so thankful that my family had not endured anywhere near the loss of home and belongings that others had and for whom I truly felt for and sympathised with.

Note: To all those in 4x4 cars and people carriers who thought they could steam past, up to their armpits in water, grinning like cheshire cats at their perceived superiority, who's vehicles then broke down, (and I saw several) - I say "Pride comes before a Fall", however my daughter put it better in Anglo Saxon.